Breakfast with the Admiral

On 1^st July 1979, I was promoted to the rank of sub-Lieutenant and with the single stripe on my shoulders began carrying the burden of the President’s Commission for the next 26 glorious years. Back then I didn’t even have money to stitch my uniforms, so my mother paid for my first set of uniforms. For a penurious naval officer, I was quite well off when I stitched a pair of Ceremonial uniform with mess shirt (Dress No 2), a pair of working uniform (Dress no 8A) and a pair of the ubiquitous Navy shorts and shirt (Dress no 8). And I bought a pair of stripes and shoes with white stockings.
I was hardly a month into my Subs Courses when they decided to have a Ceremonial Parade and by cast of lots two other Sub-Lieutenants and I were chosen to attend the Parade. That morning I woke up late and just about made it for the Parade in time, after quickly changing into my new uniform with the Mess Shirt. For arriving thirty seconds late on parade, one of the senior officers made me run a round of the Parade ground before taking up rank and file in the Platoon. This was a mean thing to do, especially before the start of the parade. The summer weather was sultry and oppressive and I began sweating excessively in the stifling atmosphere, having run a full one Kilometer in the presence of junior sailors. I was cursing myself for wearing the mess shirt inside my uniform, as I noticed a large number of officers were wearing plain vests. There was little I could do about it, except grumble to myself.
Soon the parade began and Admiral Oscar Stanley Dawson, the Flag Officer Commanding-in-Chief began inspecting the parade. The Direct Entry Officer standing next to me was light years smarter than me and very quickly gave me a lesson about the Admiral’s name and decorations and names of all the other senior officers in the Command. Admiral OSD was known to be a hard task Master. He was a bachelor and had led a life of ambition and anguish, the difficulties of which bred in him an iron will and a deep resentment for anything that was not up to the highest standards of military perfection. He saw things as black and white and spoke in blunt terms. If ever he had doubts about anything, he never revealed them, possibly for fear of looking weak. He had a fine mind and a biting wit. From the little I knew or heard about him, whatever he did, he seemed to do with a sense of duty and pleasure, with a methodical and unhurried air of a rich man demolishing a plate of tasty food.
When the Admiral began inspecting my Platoon, I noticed that he was in a jolly good mood and inviting officers to bring their better halves along for breakfast soon after the parade was over. I was hoping he would pass me by, but when he stopped in front of me I went into a funk. He wasn’t a big made man but he looked me in the eye and said “Young man, you are sweating profusely. Have you been up to some mischief? I’m sure you’d like to share your little secret with me, won’t you?” It was a good trick question and was designed to make me choose, on the spur of the moment, on making mischief and confessing about it.  I should have answered in sequence “No sir” and “Yes sir”. But I answered in the opposite, in a most sanctimonious voice – “Yes sir” for the mischief and “No sir” for the confiding in him. The Admiral was taken aback.  His tone unbelievably became more saccharine “Well then, I’m inviting you to breakfast at the Navy House soon after the parade is over.” His words were a wonderfully warm sentiment, until I thought about it later and my gut instinct, built over three years of training at NDA, told me otherwise.
Soon after the parade was over, the officers who had been invited began pouring into the Navy House with their good ladies for breakfast with the Admiral. After shaking hands with everybody and warming up to the invitees, the Admiral ushered us to the open grass lawn where the breakfast was laid out. Then he said “Gentlemen, it’s a very hot day today, I invite you all to take off your tunics and leave your mess shirts on.” Everyone, barring the brand new sub-Lieutenants, was in a fix. Amazingly, none of the senior officers were wearing mess shirts. Some were not even wearing vests and the ones that wore vests had holes, the size of potatoes. Some vests were stained yellow with age. Some vests looked like kitchen rags. Looking at the officers hesitating, the Admiral stood foursquare behind his earlier order “Gentlemen, I insist you take off your tunics.”
The Admiral didn’t have to say very much thereafter – the laughter from the ladies said it all. Some of the bigwigs of the Command, who used to bully the Sub-Lieutenants, scurried to the remote corners of the lawn, in their tattered under garments, some bare chested and some in stains, with their plates in hand. That morning some senior officers ate breakfast as if they were attending a funeral service, as the Admiral spoke to the three sub-Lieutenants, like heroes who had just returned from war.
For me, just as it was for some of the ladies present that day, it was one of those priceless moments when the sunshine takes away all life’s shadows.